


And in the end, does it matter who's the Prince and who's the Princess?

by natcat5



Series: Dark Month 2015 [7]
Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Curse AU, F/M, mermaid au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate became a private investigator to bust crime and beat down bad guys, not break curses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And in the end, does it matter who's the Prince and who's the Princess?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm quite fond of this pairing, actually.
> 
> Kate POV

\--

You don’t believe in curses.

No, really, you don’t. You believe in bad luck, and karma, and unfortunate occurrences, but actual curses? Nah. Excuses, ways to explain things that seem unexplainable. It’s easier to say ‘I’m cursed’ rather than just accept that sometimes bad things happen, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Nothing you could have done to prevent it. You believe in random happenstance, but you don’t believe in curses.

What you _do_ believe in is money. And paychecks. And compensation for arrows put through the kneecaps of ne’er-do-wells.

So when someone sends you an email asking you to deal with a cursed lake on their property, you stare at the proposal incredulously, then look at the proposed salary for your service, and decide that, for $100 bucks upfront and another $200 ‘upon removal’, you can believe in curses for a day or two.

So you drive out to some tiny cottage on some tiny lake in some tiny county that you’ve never heard of before. You have to admit, driving through, that the atmosphere is right for curses. The sky is cloudy and gray, the trees are mostly barren, even though autumn’s barely begun, and the road is so bumpy that your equipment flies off the seats of your car.

But you reach the tiny cottage on the tiny lake that is apparently cursed. And you introduce yourself to the old lady who lives in the tiny cottage, and nod politely as she tells you that there’s a ghost of a dead boy in the lake, spooking her every time she tries to take a boat out, or tries to fish on the pier, or even just tries to walk along the beach.

You mention offhand that that sounds more like a haunting than a curse. She glares at you. You smile and shut up. _Money, Kate! Money!_

The old lady informs you that you can take the guest room for as long as you need to get the job done. But that she won’t suffer to be swindled. If it looks like you’re not doing your damn best to rid the lake of the ghost or the curse or whatever, she’s kicking you out on your ass.

A real no nonsense lady. You kind of like her, actually.

You don’t dawdle. To be honest, the cottage is creepier than the lake, and you’d like to get this job done as quickly as possible. This doesn’t really seem like a bow-and-arrow, chase down baddies kind of job, so you leave most of your stuff in the trunk of your car. You keep your collapsible crossbow on your person, and some daggers.

Investigating the lake reveals a body of water that’s more green the blue, smells a little funky, and looks cursed more by pollution than anything else. The beach is nice though. A mix of sand and rock and those little tufts of grass that always grow in the randomest places.

There’s no suspicious mist hanging over the water. No crows cawing menacingly in the distance, and no sign of anything lurking beneath the surface. At all.

Actually, that’s a point of interest. You notice that there really are no birds around, no ducks or geese floating by or flying overhead. You don’t see any fish in the water, no ripples on the surface. If a lake can be deserted, this one is.

You’re no expert on wildlife or ecosystems, but this definitely strikes you as An Odd Thing.

Not curse weird, though. More like, potential chemical pollution or fish-eating algae or something.

Either way, it’s still not a problem that you can shoot with an arrow. Which means this job will continue to be boring as hell, and you should work to finish it as quickly as possible.

But the sun is sinking below the horizon, and water excursions in the darkness are never a good idea. Preliminary assessment finished, you decide to pack it in for the day, and go out on the lake first thing in the morning to see if something goes after you like the old lady claims happened to her.

As you turn to go, a shiver runs down your spine. You have a finely tuned sixth sense, a well-honed intuition that tells you when you’re being watched, or when you’re in danger. And right now, you don’t feel like you’re in danger, but you definitely feel like you’re being watched.

Huh. Maybe tomorrow’s boat ride won’t be as boring as you thought.

\--

The morning’s a little chilly, so you take a jacket with you. The old lady sends you off with a grim look, like she’s not sure you’ll make it back with all your limbs, or at all. You give her a thumbs up as you push the boat into the water and hop in. Kate Bishop, Investigator extraordinaire, ain’t afraid of no ghost. Or curse. Or cursed ghost lake monster. Whatever.

The water is eerily still as you paddle out, still no ripples except for your own. Still no sign of fish or birds or life. The sky is still cloudy and gray, the morning is dewy and damp, and after paddling around for about ten minutes, you start to feel watched again.

You look back towards the shore, but the old lady has gone inside.

You know you shouldn’t, because there’s no one around and curses don’t exist, but you legitimately begin to feel like a sitting duck, waiting in the water for something to come along and attack you. But that’s you being paranoid, and getting creeped out by the atmosphere and the old lady’s grim expression.  

Or at least, you think that, until something rocks your boat violently.

 _Futzing hell,_ you think heatedly as you clutch the sides. If you actually get done in by some half-assed ‘curse’ in the middle of nowhere, Clint will never let you live it down. You will somehow have managed to be more pathetic then he is, and that shame will follow you beyond the grave. Also, Natasha will be disappointed, and that’s pretty much the worse thing that can happen to a person.

No, you are not prepared to be eaten by some octogenarian-harassing lake monster. So you grit your teeth, open up your crossbow, and search for ripples and splashes in the water to aim at. The boat’s rocking, and panic and claustrophobia are making your heart beat wildly, but you’ve kept your arm steady in car chases, in rooftop chases, and in the midst of burning buildings. A rocking boat can’t shake you enough to make you miss.

The boat rocks violently again. Then once more. You keep your balance, and stay grimly focused.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something move under the water. A patch of green brighter than the colour of the lake itself, that seems to shine oddly in the dull light.

You immediately turn and fire.

You’re not sure what you were expecting, exactly. A very large fish? A seaweed creature? A rotted log that you keep bumping against, thus causing the wild rocking? You don’t know. You just let your instincts take hold, shot, and fired.

The result, nonetheless, is completely unexpected.

A _tail,_ flicks out of the water, large and green and with your arrow sticking out of it, blood running down the scales. Then it smacks down against the surface of the lake, soaking you before disappearing.

You only manage to sit, stunned, for about five seconds before something bumps the bottom of the boat again, and you’re fumbling to reload, trying to wrap your head around what you’ve seen.

The boat tips at the back, like something’s leaning on it, and your bag and paddles slide down towards stern. You lose your balance trying to turn around quickly, and stick out your legs in a V shape against the sides of the boat to stop yourself from sliding to the stern as well.

It all happens in a moment, and as soon as your bearings are in order, you’ve got your crossbow raised and pointed at whatever’s leaning on the back of the boat. And it’s…

_You’ve got to be kidding me._

“A merman?!” you hiss in disbelief, not lowering your crossbow, “You must be joking. The lake monster ghost curse is a _merman?”_

The merman in question gives you one of the dirtiest looks you have ever received, which is saying something. But you return it to him in kind, since he’s still leaning on your boat like an asshole and also apparently gets his kicks spooking old ladies living alone in cottages.

 _A merman._ He looks like a normal human, but also not. He’s got all the right bits from the waist up, the part that’s out of the water and leaning on your boat, but you can see the green of his tail, still bleeding into the water. And there are scales travelling up his torso and arms. His hair is also shockingly white, even while soaking wet, and you can imagine how catching a glimpse of him out of the corner of the eye could lead someone to believe he’s a ghost. Though you honestly don’t know how the fish tail could escape notice.

“You _shot_ me!” he says, sounding ridiculously offended, “With a _bow and arrow!_ Who does that?? What is this, the stone age?”

“You were rocking my boat!” you snap, choosing not to lower your crossbow, and choosing not to dwell on the fact that you’re arguing with a merman, “And you were also bothering the old lady in that cottage, like a dick, so I think you had the arrow in the ass coming to you.”

You don’t know if you actually shot him in the ass. You don’t know if mermen have asses. You are feeling slightly out of your depth here.

“That _hag_ turned me into a fish!” he snarls, leaning his weight more heavily on your boat, “And you can’t die from a little boat rocking! I just bumped it a little! Jeez, talk about a goddamn overreaction. If you were stuck in a 4-by-4 tiny ass lake for months on end, you’d be bored as hell too. I can’t believe you shot me for bumping against your stupid-,”

“Wait, wait wait wait,” you interrupt, lowering your crossbow a little, “What did you say? Repeat what you just said.” Because what.

The merman looks at you sourly and huffs, moving off your boat a little. “I _said_ you overreacted-,”

“No, not that, and I didn’t, but that’s not what I meant,” you say hurriedly, interrupting again, “The part about the old lady turning you into a fish?”

The merman pauses.

He slides off the stern, and you fall back on your ass as the boat rights itself in the water, grimacing. You try not to startle when the merman’s head pops out of the water to your left, floating about a foot away with a darkly amused expression that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What, the witch didn’t tell you?” he asks scornfully, “I stepped on her stupid petunias while running through here, and she told me she’d make sure I never ran over someone’s flowers again, and tossed me in here, sans feet. An actual witch’s curse, in the year 2015. Complete with a cryptic riddle as the only ‘cure’. I mean, you think you’ve taken all the shit life can possibly throw at a person, but then an honest to god witch turns you into a fish. So, yeah! As it turns out, things can always get worse.”

That is.

That was not in the job description, or in your contract, or in anything the old lady told you. This is all suddenly, very complicated, very supernatural, and very unbelievable.

But say you believe that this is all happening, that you’re not in a fever dream or some wild trip. Say you decide to accept that this is real. Then someone is lying to you. It’s either the old woman who brought you here, or the sullen fish boy floating beside you. Or maybe it’s both. Maybe they’re in this together. Maybe this was all an elaborate _trap._

But maybe you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Maybe you should gather more information first, like a _good_ P.I.

“Okay, wait, so,” you press a hand to your forehead. You have a headache. It is very early, and the old lady witch person had not had a coffee machine. “You say the old lady in the cottage is a witch and cursed you.”

“ _Yes,”_ replies the merman, impatient.

“For trampling her flowers.”

“It was dark! I didn’t see the damn things.”

“And only left you with a riddle to reverse it?”

The merman sighs, heavily. Clearly, you are not processing this series of impossible events fast enough for him.

“Yes,” he repeats, with much exasperation, “ ‘When blood is spilt by a hawk’s sharp talon, when understanding shines in a hawk’s keen eye, only then will your curse be lifted, willing touch of a hawk’s beak, by.’”

He sinks a little lower in the water, eyes glowering.

“I can’t forget it, it’s been forcibly imprinted into my brain,” he comments darkly, “Fat lot of good it does me. There are no birds around for miles, and I wouldn’t know a hawk if I saw one anyways.” Then he falls silent, stewing, sulking.

You are lost for words.

Your name is Kate Bishop, you are the youngest daughter of a rich businessman. You are a socialite, a debutante, and a large number of New York’s high society knows your name.

But on the street, in your P.I. business, you are known only as ‘Hawkeye’.

Or Hawkette, or Hawkingbird. Whatever. It’s the ‘hawk’ part that’s important here.

You do not believe in curses. If you are somehow supposed to break one, you will be a little upset by the irony.

But honestly, you can’t ignore the way the pieces line up. You made him bleed with your arrow, you suddenly understand what happened to him, that he’s not a malicious ghost, and all that’s left would be to…

Oh boy.

‘Touch of hawk’s beak’, that doesn’t need much interpretation.

“Okay,” you say, stomach suddenly twisting with nervousness. “Okay, you, alright. I think I’ve got some of this figured out.”

“That the witch is evil and I’m the victim here? And that you should feel bad for shooting me?” says the merman flatly, flicking his injured tail out of the water.

“No- I mean, yes, in part, sort of- that’s not the point,” you stammer, moving closer to the side of the boat. “Just- come here.”

His expression immediately morphs into one of suspicion, and he does the opposite, moving backwards a few paces. “What?”

You put your stubborn face on, gripping the side of the boat. “I get why I’m here. Destiny or whatever. I know how to break the curse.” This next part is going to be embarrassing. You’re not sure three hundred bucks is worth this Disney bullshit.

Ah, well.

“My codename is Hawkeye,” you admit, begrudgingly. “And I just, I mean, I shot you with an arrow, and I understand what happened to you now, so if that stupid riddle is implying what I think it is…”

The merman’s eyes widen, and he pops out of the water a little, so that it’s up to his chest and not his collarbone.

“You’re serious,” he says, incredulous, “A kiss? To break the spell? You must be joking.”

“You think I _want_ to kiss a random mythological creature that I just met?” you retort defensively, folding your arms across your chest, “I’m just telling you what it sounds like. It’s not like _I_ have anything to gain.”

He stares at you silently for a few long seconds, eyes unreadable. But then a slow smile spreads across his face, a roguish one. You adamantly deny it causing any butterflies.

“Nothing to gain but a kiss with a handsome devil like myself,” he says, grinning a little, “In what fairytale does the princess not want that?”

“Actually, I think I’m the prince in this one,” you counter, ignoring the way your cheeks are burning.

“Unless it’s the Frog one,” he shoots back, and damn, that’s true. You forgot about that one.

“Look, stop avoiding the main issue,” you press, getting a little flustered, “You want me to kiss you, or not?”

The merman stares at you then, really looks at you. His eyes are very green, you note. They look very tired. You wonder how long he’s been here, cursed.

“Hawkeye,” he says, tone of voice unreadable, “That’s not your real name.”

“It’s Kate,” you say immediately, breaking your own rule of not giving out your name on jobs, “And…and you?”

He’s silent, just watching you. And then, quietly, “Tommy.”

Tommy. Tommy the merman. Tommy the cursed teenage petunia-trampler. If you dwell on this any longer, you’re going to become a little hysterical.

“Tommy,” you repeat, and lean over the side of the boat, pressing your lips to his.

\--

 “I am so _terribly_ sorry about all this,” frets the old lady, the witch, wringing her hands. “Sometimes we witches just fly into these terrible tempers and cast the first curse that comes to mind. It’s a bad habit, we’re all guilty of it. But,”

She brightens, smiling toothily and clasping her hands together, “We always know to undo it! I knew in the future Miss Hawkeye would be around, I summoned her here via the emails, and so, like a good witch, have amended my mistakes.”

Sitting on the couch across from her, you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from retorting sharply.

And sitting beside you, newly rehumanized, with his legs pressed against yours, Tommy is doing his very best to look like he doesn’t care. Like he’s bored listening to her prattle on. Like he’s not tense and wound tight and seething at the casual way she’s referring to stealing away months of his life.

When the witch heads into the cottage’s kitchen to refill the tea pot, you turn to Tommy and ask him what he’s going to do now. If he wants to use your phone to call his parents. If he needs a lift to take him home.

The smile he plasters on is thin, worn around the edges. He gives a one-shouldered shrug.

“I was between homes when I ran through her garden,” he says, voice casual, “Haven’t seen my parents for years. Figure I’ll just keep heading the direction I was going before she zapped me.”

Tommy continues to do his very best to look like he doesn’t care. He has yet to realize that you are Hawkeye, and you have a superpower of seeing through bullshit. He, like all the others, will have to learn with time.

“Well I checked my email, and I’ve got another job lined up, a state over,” you say, locking your eyes with his, “Wanna ride along? I’ll fill you in on all the trashy celebrity gossip from the past few months.”

Tommy stares at you then, a look you’re becoming familiar with. Where his eyes try very hard to give nothing away, but give themselves away by how hard they’re trying. It’s a little endearing. It’s a little sad.

Then the steel bars guarding his expression move back a little, and he gives you a half smirk, eyes as green as his tail was.

“Only if I get to pick the music,” he answers.

You don’t know if you’re the princess here, or the prince. But you don’t think it matters, in the end. A curse was broken, a life was saved, and you’ve got a partner in crime for the foreseeable future.

Happy ever after indeed.

 


End file.
